


the start of a long, long story

by atoriv



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Gen, headcanon heavy etc etc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24577477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atoriv/pseuds/atoriv
Summary: Luxu, at the first steps of his journey.
Relationships: Ava & Luxu (Kingdom Hearts), Luxu & Master of Masters (Kingdom Hearts)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	1. i. The Spectator

**Author's Note:**

> finished in between college assignments because god knows i need to take a break somehow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That which observes.

Luxu twirls his keyblade in his hand, sitting on top of the box. The grass shifts around his boots as the wind brushes against it. He lifts the weapon up, eclipsing the sun, and watches as the light scatters around its white, aged edges. Observes the scratches on it, wonders how they got there, as he has done every single day since he received the gift.

His Master once told him he doesn’t  _ craft _ Keyblades per se, more so he reaches inside a heart and helps whatever essence is in there take shape as a weapon. Luxu, however, isn’t sure how literal the words ‘reaching inside a heart’ are, how much of the explanation is metaphor and how much of it is, well, an actual answer (you never know, with that guy).

He wonders why his Keyblade has such clear signs of age. Luxu would never consider himself an ‘old soul’ (much as that sounds like something his Master would say to tease him), nor would he consider his heart one filled with scars from battles past. Perhaps it is a sign for the future – a bad omen. It isn’t out of the realm of possibility, what with the whole clairvoyance deal. Despite the grimness of it all, Luxu feels no fear at the prospect of it. He would simply wait and see.

He brings the Keyblade back down to his side, the sunlight hitting his eyes like needles. His gaze then turns to the town below him, the wielders arguing against each other. He spots two children trying to break up a fight, and can’t help but scoff at how fruitless it all is. Fruitless, and repetitive. Each day that passes feels exactly like the last, despite things clearly growing tenser by the minute. It’s an odd phenomenon. It’s like he’s feeling the pressure increase around them a fraction each hour, never noticing the difference from a second prior, until it becomes too much for them, and they die, not even realizing how they got to that point.

It is as interesting as it is morbid, much like his Keyblade, much like himself.

His gaze drifts to the eye this time. How does – or rather, did...? – his Master experience all of this? Did he watch it like a film, one frame after the next, or was he aware of every single event from the start? Did he ever experience it, so to speak, or was it a concept in his mind from the very moment he came to be, much like some believed all humans were born with inherent knowledge?

Thinking about it was fruitless, much like trying to stop the war. The Master was nowhere near to answer his questions, and wouldn’t be for a long time.

His chest goes cold at the thought. He turns his attention back to the view in front of him, now watching clouds above him twirl around the slowly setting sun.

Luxu made his peace with the fact a long time ago. In truth, he never thought it was an issue to begin with. He is introverted as it is, he thought some time in isolation sounded like exactly what he needed anyway. Much better than to deal with the new wielders, to lead them, fight for and against them. That all simply sounded like busywork he couldn’t be bothered with. Despite the doubts in the back of his mind regarding the roles assigned to each of them – he seriously doubts how capable Invi is to break up a fight, for example – his role is perfect for him. Sit and watch. That is what he has always done.

Yet, only a few months into his journey, there is a little demon in the back of his mind asking if he, perhaps, overestimated his mental fortitude when he expressed little worry to his Master when his role was first given to him. He ignores it, because he has no other option.

Or at least, he tries to. It’s a nagging sensation that refuses to go away. Thoughts race to remind him of how long it’s been since he’s spoken to anyone, since he’s made eye contact with anyone, or since he’s been seen at all.

Truly, if experience is the source of all knowledge, then to anyone else, there is no evidence that he currently exists. Even the Foretellers are far too caught up in their internal struggle, and he was never close with any of them to begin with. The one who truly knows him, the only one, his Master, is nowhere. Certainly watching and pulling strings, but as far as anyone is concerned, he is nowhere. Therefore, in a way, so is Luxu.

Months after his departure, he realizes how long it’s been since he’s heard someone say his name.

He holds it close to his heart – however unusual that heart may be, one created rather than naturally occurring – despite everything. “Luxu” is who he is, what his Master wants him to be and what he excels at. He sees it not as a burden but as a gift, something that keeps him grounded. Now, especially, he grabs onto it desperately and unrelentingly. It is proof that he is someone, that he came from somewhere – some _one! _ – and that he has a purpose.

His hand tightens around his weapon, and his eyes drift to it once more without him realizing. His gaze scans it, its hilt, the beautifully bat-like wings decorating it. Its graceful markings, its inexplicable scars from a battle that he was never in, the goat head decorating it – Luxu’s only true similarity to the Foretellers, an associated animal – and finally, his attention painfully settles on the Gazing Eye.

Since getting the Keyblade, he’s noticed that the Eye has a strange aura around it. No matter the angle you look at it from, it always seems to be staring back, despite never once moving. Even when one has their back turned to it, it’s possible to feel a presence staring at you, watching ever so diligently. Though Luxu knows most would find it unsettling, he has grown to find it comforting. He doesn’t mind being alone, but a presence by his side – no matter how real, as part of him suspects it might be a figment of his imagination – is appreciated. Undeniably, he feels this way because said presence is his Master.

For all of his apparent disinterest in the world around him, Luxu is neither foolish nor cold enough to claim that he does not feel his absence. The man is an annoyance a lot of the time, that much is undeniable, but he is Luxu’s home. It is not the tower, he cares little for the place despite spending most of his life in it, but the man who created and raised him. Looking at the Eye, he figures that in a way, the Keyblade is part of his home. It is a gift given and bound to him, much like his name.

Though he will have to give up his Keyblade for a period of time, no one can tear his name away from him. And he decides that, as long as he doesn’t forget it, he will be fine. He is Luxu, and as long as he holds that close to his artificial heart, it won’t matter that no one else does.

The wind and white noise wash his thoughts away, and the sun sets in Daybreak Town.


	2. ii. The Spectrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That which is seen.

Luxu has always despised Ava, though he struggled to articulate why. From the moment they were first introduced, it was as if they were made of things that are repulsed by each other by their very nature. If Ava is water, he is oil, so to speak. They refuse to mix, and Luxu is above, worrying about things that matter, the future and the Master’s vision, while Ava is stuck on the ground, suffocated by her own incessant need to save and preserve. He moves on towards the future, and she gets stuck in the present in such a manner that she is doomed to be left behind. In a way, she is as fit for her role and he is to his. Ava worries about people, he worries about ideas. She wants to intervene, he couldn't care less about doing so.

He feels that the resentment isn’t a one-way street: Ava herself, despite her obnoxious attempts at diplomacy, rarely spoke to him. When she did, her tone was flat, emotionless, much like the one she used when recruiting many of her precious Dandelions. In a way, that is who she really is: not the bubbly girl the Foretellers and some of her closest recruits are familiar with, but someone who keeps at a distance, and speaks as if every conversation is an interruption to her thoughts. If nothing else, he could almost appreciate the honesty.

Where others see a kindhearted leader, Luxu tends to spot a self-absorbed individual who thinks everything is her problem to solve, and that she is the only one enlightened enough to solve them. He sees arrogance, for he knows things that she doesn’t, and never will.

They are both deeply trusted by their Master. Or, at least, the image that the Master intended to craft – which, Luxu knows, is often far different from the truth – is that he trusts Ava. Despite her young age, she is the one tasked with the role that will keep humanity alive. It would be a lie for Luxu to claim it does not bother him to see that much trust being put on someone he despises, as much as he understands on a fundamental level that Ava truly is the only person fit for that role.

When she confronts him by the hill that overlooks the town that is now tearing itself apart from the inside out, he can’t help but feel it was inevitable.

And it is cathartic, to be able to tear her world apart. To tell her that she is wrong, has been wrong from day one, that she who thinks she knows everything is now forced to understand that she does not understand neither the Master nor her own job. He does so with his Keyblade in hand, perhaps childishly. He shows her the ultimate sign of trust the Master bestowed upon him – and he shows the Eye, his Master, who one of his favorite little students truly is. Luxu is aware he already knows, that he likely knew Ava would misstep this catastrophically, but at that moment, he does not care. The fact she attacks him afterward is sweet confirmation of her arrogance and fundamental futility. 

Some time after, he watches the Foretellers disappear as they’re meant to. He watches Ava struggle to keep herself together, and refuse to follow her peers, apparently now embracing the fact that she is a failure and deciding to continue to disobey. He watches kids die, their hearts floating up to the sky, all atop one of the rock formations that surround the wasteland, safe from all of the conflict just like he was instructed.

That is his role: watch, and most importantly, survive. A luxury no other apprentice was afforded, and one that has a meaning that isn’t lost on him.

From there, he looks at the sky. He sees Kingdom Hearts.

Despite his years of study and no lack of questions directed at his Master, he still fails to comprehend it in its entirety. A gathering of hearts, he knows. Extraordinary, powerful and terrifying; in no particular need for protection, and a threat to those that seek it. His Master always had a strange tone when speaking of it, as if he were utterly fascinated by but also terrified of it. Fear was an uncommon emotion to see him display; the man was obviously such an expert at acting that real emotions were indistinguishable from fake ones, and fear isn’t exactly an emotion a leader often needs to show his apprentices. But Luxu could never forget the day that wasn’t the case.

_“But what can it do?” He asked, when he was so very young._

_The silence that followed hung for a millisecond too long, something Luxu wouldn’t have noticed if not for what followed._

_“A lot of things, if you know how to use it!” His Master answered, tone indistinguishable from his usual laid-back mask. “Not much, if you don’t.”_

_“Well, does anyone know?”_

_It was then that his Master froze, and Luxu felt something in the air shift. He thought he heard air escape him, as if he started a sentence but didn’t know what words to use, and Luxu’s stomach turned. When he finally processed his Master’s reaction and was about to speak up again, the man finally replied._

_“I don’t think so,” he said, and Luxu could tell something was wrong because he could_ tell _the man was lying, “but it doesn't hurt to be careful, does it! Speaking of…”_

_It was then that Luxu, just a young kid at the time, got his cloak. One in the list of gifts he holds dear._

Kingdom Hearts shines beautifully with the souls of the departed. Looking at it now, Luxu himself can’t help but have a similar reaction as his Master did all those years ago.

The aftermath of the battle is brutal; a violent silence sets in and the once empty landscape is now filled with hundreds, thousands of abandoned Keyblades from wielders that have passed. Despite not being a particularly emotional person, and having already thrown away any meager amount of attachment he felt towards the place and its inhabitants, the view is chilling to him. He watched every single one of them fall, watched as the crowds began large then got thinner and thinner until there were only a few scattered skirmishes in the landscape, and he watched every single one of them die, of their injuries or exhaustion.

It’s hard, even for him, to completely shrug off the weight that has been growing inside his chest for the past few hours. Still, he pushes past it and gets ready to leave, turning towards the box. However, before he does, he pauses. His eyes catch sight of something, or rather, someone.

He had lost track of her and assumed she had simply fled – and perhaps that is indeed what happened – but there she is, once again in the center of the sea of abandoned Keyblades. Ava stands there, alone, completely still, looking up at the sky. He follows her gaze, sees Kingdom Hearts slowly losing its glow, until the dark clouds surrounding it appear to engulf it once again and leave the graveyard sky pitch black. He looks down at her again, but she doesn’t appear to move. Ava stands there, like a statue, back turned against him, looking up at the black above.

The silence that follows is somehow worse than the one that came before. It feels as if minutes pass while she just stands there, with no sign of life, and Luxu remains equally frozen for a reason that is beyond him. He finds himself unable to tear his eyes away from her, maybe due to desiring some sense of closure in this chapter of his existence. He feels that if he leaves now, the image before his eyes will stick with him for longer than it needs to.

And perhaps he was right to think so, but what follows isn’t any more forgettable.

After what seems like hours of no movement whatsoever, she lowers her gaze from where Kingdom Hearts used to be. Ava looks around her, slowly, spending an excruciating amount of time analyzing each and every Keyblade scattered on the ground. The silence, now unbearable, continues as she wanders towards one of the weapons stabbed into the ground. She stops in front of it, hesitates before putting her hand on its hilt. There, she lingers, expression unreadable both due to her mask and the distance between her and him.

Just when Luxu thinks she will fall into more frozen silence, her previously gentle hand atop the Keyblade curls its fingers around the hilt in an instant, like a snake ensnaring its prey. After a second of gathering strength, she rips the weapon out of the ground and violently tosses it aside. It hits the floor with a loud metallic crash, and it is all so sudden Luxu finds himself taking a step back from atop the safety of his rock.

Right after, Ava falls to her knees and curls up into herself, hands on her face. It is then that Luxu decides he wants to leave more than anything, but his body refuses to move, and his eyes refuse to focus on anything but her. There, on the ground, she stays, quivering and crying like a newborn fox. It is all so quiet, but the landscape is quieter, so he hears it despite not wanting to. And he doesn’t want to, despite still feeling nothing but contempt for the girl in front of him, knowing it is all a result of her own arrogance. The sight is deeply unsettling, a glimpse into something that is so far out of the context in which they usually interact that it borders on unreal. It isn’t pity he feels, but a violent sense of nonbelonging, so visceral he wants to run. But again, his body refuses, frozen in what could wrongly be identified as terror.

Then, a high pitched scream echoes through the graveyard, so loud it could echo for miles, so gruesome he can hear the pain in her throat, feel it in his. He flinches more now than he did when she attempted to strike him in their confrontation at the hill. He drops his own Keyblade – and he is _lucky_ the screech is more than loud enough to obscure the sound of metal clinging against rock – and brings his hands to his ears. He stumbles back, enough that Ava is no longer in view, and stops, freezes in place. Even after she goes quiet again, his hands stay on his ears.

He remains in that pathetic state for longer than he would ever admit. When he drags himself out of it, he is quick to rush to the box and leave the scene, to never look back. Ava has either stopped crying, or his ears are still ringing too much from her scream to hear. He doesn’t care to find out, and he leaves before he has the chance to look at her again.

He walks towards the future, and she is stuck in the present, soon to turn into the past.

All is as it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (please don't be mistaken, i love ava very much, luxu is genuinely just awful)


	3. iii. The Operator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That which creates and abandons.

The first body change does not go as smoothly as he thought it would, though not for reasons one would guess.

The process itself goes fine and with little resistance. A little sacrificial motivation is apparently all it takes for someone so young to be so willing to give up their life. Though he had never planned on asking anyone’s permission to use their form, he is hardly one to complain about the lack of a struggle. He makes note of the importance of being more careful to not be noticed next time, and takes this as an opportunity for learning.

The problem comes a couple of days later, after some already excruciating disorientation. It is not physical; he can move his limbs and absorb his surroundings just fine. But everything feels wrong, from the obvious fact that he is now shorter to the subtle differences such as how his hair feels on his head. Everything is slightly wrong, he finds himself unable to do much of anything that requires any sort of bodily strength. Walking reminds him of how short this vessel is; standing up is a chore, because of how different this person’s posture is from his own.

It makes _existing_ an exhausting, painful experience, and the knowledge that this problem is a permanent one for the comprehensible future strikes a particularly cruel type of terror in his heart, one he has never felt before. 

But he still has that: his heart. His heart and his soul are constants, he knows. _Luxu_ is a constant, and he will succeed. He knows that, he was told that, by his Master. His Master, who isn’t there anymore.

His hand reaches out, calling for him – for the Keyblade, _his_ Keyblade, _their_ connection – but of course, it isn’t under his possession anymore. It hasn’t been for longer than he has had this body, and yet he keeps calling for it, all but begging for it to magically return, because he needs the grounding it gave him. He wishes more than anything that it would magically return, so that he could feel that comforting presence again, so he can look at him again, and be seen in return.

He wants so badly to be seen by someone who knows who he is, so they can tell him that, because he is terrified of getting anywhere near any kind of reflective surface. The mere act of looking at his own hands and noticing how different they are to his own makes him want to gouge his eyes out – his eyes, which aren’t really _his –_ and he is unsure if he would be able to look into a mirror and see someone that he knows is not himself. Similarly, he has refused to utter a single word since taking this form.

Since he got a new body, he has isolated himself in the desert, clinging to the box as if it is a beacon of safety. It is now his only link to what he was – _is,_ he keeps having to remind himself – but it is far weaker than he would like it to be. There is no Eye on the box, nor anything in it that relates to him as the Keyblade did. No Name is his, but this box is his to _take care of_. He doesn’t understand the purpose of what is inside, it is alien. It is not a connection, but a responsibility. But it’s _something_ , he keeps telling himself. It **has** to be _something_.

The single solace he has gotten from giving out his Keyblade to some random kid who cannot possibly understand its significance is that watching the others is no longer a responsibility of his. He would have been unable to, in this state, and the thought of his Master seeing him like this brings him nothing but self-hatred. The reasons for it are murky, part of it is fear of being thought of as weaker than what is expected of him, part of it is guilt over thinking that the Master would lower his opinion of him so easily in the first place. Part of it is rejecting the possibility of inflicting pain or guilt upon his Master, and part of it is absolute rage at the fact that he is being put through this in the first place.

The sun hits him, the skin that is not his, as it sets. In any other circumstance, he would make the effort to note how beautiful the sky is, despite usually finding little joy in sightseeing. His Master used to tell him that he should learn to appreciate moments for what they are, instead of being deep in his thoughts, and thus Luxu tried to force himself to. But his efforts were superficial, he found the concept naïve and boring, only complying to get his Master to stop bothering him.

He realizes now that his Master’s words were life saving advice cloaked as playful nagging. He also realizes how, despite before thinking of himself as a perfect student, that he has failed to absorb that advice. Luxu never stopped living inside his thoughts, and his thoughts are now screaming at him that he does not want to keep going like this.

Instead of beautiful and comforting, the warm tones above him feel violent. They stab him, forcing him to keep his eyes shut, to press his face against the box while his heart aches. He feels something missing inside him, a black hole that used to be occupied by the presence of his Keyblade. Luxu is now, in the truest sense of the word, alone, failing to find company even in his own self as it slips away from him like thin sand between his fingers.

He realizes then he was never content with being alone, solitude has never been something he desired. Resigned himself to, yes, due to necessity and boundless arrogance, but not something he actively sought. He realizes then that he is used to having someone close to him, a force to keep him grounded. His name, frail identity, isn’t enough anymore, and it never was. It was never Luxu keeping himself together, but the presence of someone who loves him.

Luxu realizes, under a blinding sunset and an oppressive red sky, that he misses his father.

He has never been one to cry, simply due to never finding a reason to. Though he seemed, on the surface, unhappy for a lot of his time in the tower, it was mostly an effective way to get people to not speak to him. He was content in the tower – or rather, he was content anywhere his father was. He never had big doubts about his role, as he understood himself as someone who had risen above the necessity of human connections. He wasn’t _human_ , after all.

But much like his weary Keyblade was modeled after his young heart, he was modeled after a human. His Master was delighted when he spoke of how normal he was for someone that was made in a lab, pride clear in his voice. Now, Luxu feels that ordinarity like a bat over his head, as tears leave his eyes and he wishes he were as inhuman as the Heartless.

_“You speak like a human, you move like a human, you feel emotions like a human!”_

_“Is that a good thing?”_

_“It’s fantastic!” He said, in his familiar enthusiastic voice. Behind the curtain of shadow, he could see a wide smile. Luxu, in his humanity, couldn’t help but smile back._

He doesn’t know how much comfort his supposed humanity brings him, nor how much that justifies his current reaction. His face is hot, covered in a thin layer of sweat from the heat of the desert and now wet with tears. He pulls away from the box with as much hesitation as a child lets go of its favorite plush toy, and uses his hands to wipe his face clean. It doesn’t work well.

_“If I do all of these things… why am I not human?” He asked._

_“What makes a human, well, human?”_

_“I ‘unno! You’re the one that’s supposed to tell me!”_

He remembers the exchanges they had, where Luxu pushed for concrete answers for things that he now understands are hard to define. But Luxu wanted an answer, a concrete thing to call himself, if only so his mind could latch onto it. He cared little if strangers knew of his status as a non-human entity, but he cared about forming an identity, as many children do. Those were feelings he couldn’t quite articulate at the time. If he could, perhaps he would have voiced them.

He takes one of his gloves off and uses it as a poor replacement for a handkerchief.

_“I think someone’s origins are what matters,” he said, “and yours aren’t human. And, y’know, humans don’t usually have Spirit powers.”_

_“So am I a Spirit?”_

_“Perhaps… you can be both! You’re something brand new!”_

_“You made me, don’t you get to decide?”_

_He laughed, though not as artificially as he often does. This time, it was barely more than a fond chuckle. “That’s not how it works, no. When I say origins, I mean… ah, this is hard to explain.”_

For some reason, knowing his origins isn’t sufficient here. He knows where he came from, who created him, and what his purpose is, and yet he now struggles to even say his own name out loud due to the simple fact that he is terrified of his own voice. Are origins so fragile that all that takes to break them is a different appearance, he wonders, or is there something wrong with him?

_“It’s your job to explain!”_

_“Gimme a break, kiddo. Why does it matter so much to you? You’re you, that’s what it all comes down to. That’s what I see, y’know? The specific nomenclature ain’t that important. If you want to call yourself human or Spirit, go ahead; the one who really has any say in it is you.”_

_Luxu fell into silence, a perplexed look on his young little face. His Master let the quiet settle in, observing the kid with fondness before turning back to one of his countless books. While he flipped through its pages, Luxu’s gaze fell to the floor, pensive._

Despite it all, remembering his father’s words does calm him down enough to stop the tears. He curls up into himself, holding his knees close to his chest. His Master isn’t _gone_ , he knows. Though he isn’t with him anymore, not even through an intermediary like the Eye, he is somewhere. And he knows Luxu. To a lesser extent, so do the Foretellers in stasis, and so does Ava, who is presumably wandering in a broken husk of a world. He exists, he is real, even though few know that.

_“...Master?”_

_“Yeah?” He said, not looking back at him._

_“Are you human?” He asked, lifting his head once more._

_His Master paused, then turned to him. He let the silence linger for long enough that Luxu thought he was simply going to ignore the question, and then, a laugh escaped him, one that lasted a long while. A definitive answer never came that day, but Luxu knew the Master was aware he was smart enough to put the pieces together._

_And in the end, did it matter? His father was his father, and that’s all it came down to._

He wonders now if his Master was truly capable of understanding what he went through, and goes through right now. For someone who can see through time, write it down, traverse it without need for an intermediary, a sense of self might look like something completely different. Perhaps it might not even exist. And Luxu respects that, he understands that one who isn’t bound by time may find less comfort in an identity and favor something far more malleable. For his Master, who he is now is who he is tomorrow; who he is tomorrow is something he is able to predict, and it is all subject to change at the whims of fate, which are immutable. He is already defined, because he can see himself from tomorrow and yesterday and from any day of his existence.

But Luxu, as non-human as he may be, is no less tied to the hands of a ticking clock than the average Keyblade wielder. The hands drag him forwards, slowly, continuously, and he has no say in the matter. Sometimes, he wishes time would go back (he wishes he’d spoken to his father more); he wishes they would stop (he wishes he never had to give his Keyblade up) and wishes they would speed up (he wishes this would all be done with already). Despite his wishes, however, he has no such power. He can’t help but laugh at the irony that what he wishes for more than anything is for the ability to warp time, when his powers are based on space.

His thoughts, ever cruel, play what he saw in the war-ridden graveyard over and over in his mind. The image of Ava curled up into herself, going through something he could not and does not care to understand. He wonders what she would do, were the roles reversed now; if she would watch him at his lowest, if she in her ever growing faux kindness would attempt to say something. Thinking about it is pointless, he knows, and yet he can’t stop wondering.

He shuts his eyes, shakes his head, and pushes himself up. He stumbles when he does, gripping the box for balance, but he manages. He looks up at the sky, now purple and blue and black and a thousand other colors as the sun reaches the horizon, He spends an eternity watching the colors fade and change, until the sky is black and dotted with a thousand stars. He breathes, slowly, closing his eyes for a moment.

The heart inside his chest aches. He puts his ungloved hand over his chest, and can almost feel it burn with the pain inside. Gaze dropping to the floor in front of him, he takes another deep breath.

“M–” he starts, and shuts his mouth once he hears a voice that is definitely not his come out of his mouth. His eyes close shut again, willing away the new wave of tears that hit him; he swallows the painful lump in his throat, and looks up at the sky again.

“May my heart be my guiding key.”

Luxu moves towards the future, as he always does.


End file.
